Beat

Cincinnati wasn't very kind to me. Sure, I had a great Christmas with my mom's side of the family, and Hanukkah last night with my dad's side was full of hijinks, excitement, and Thomas rowdiness. My brothers' absence from the weekend made things less fun for me, but with Ian in NYC and Eric in New Zealand, I think they had good times of their own.

Christmas morning, I went for a four mile run in my mom's neighborhood before we got on the road to the farm. No room for the bike meant that I had to do something before I gorged on a Christmas Day feast. I ate my fill and then some. Jim made a turducken; my mom a walnut apple pie in a pecan pie fashion. Amazing stuff.

The day after Christmas, did another four miles which was a bad idea. I felt good for a while, but my calves started cramping up on the return and the descent back to the farmhouse was walked. I did go into the run with the plan of doing six, but I bailed on that idea when I hit Rocky Point and I had the taste of breakfast in my mouth. Not fun.

Then yesterday I managed to nearly put myself into the hospital. The night before, I made plans to ride over to Allison's parents' house in order to celebrate Christmas with her family before going over to my grandparents' for Hanukkah. My mom's house is on the complete opposite end of town and the ride, if done directly is 30 miles. I have a circuituous route that goes 46, then I also have an 80 miler for those days when I have time to spare and I don't have to carry a bag. Being that I had a backpack full of clothes and presents, I planned on the 46.

Before doing all that, I tasked myself with coiling the hoses my mom had left in the yard and taking them all down to the basement. The outside entrance to the basement is down a set of eight sandstone steps under the back porch. Dragging the hoses down the steps, I fell forward and then backward onto my back and left elbow. The steps, being wet from rain and slick with moss and mud, were slipperier than a greased pig, greased lightning, or greased greyhound. Whatever. I let out a scream and my mom came a'running out thinking that I'd killed myself on something. I spent about two minutes rolling around on the muddy steps, blood running down my ankle from a cut, like some kind of pathetic worm.

Once I realized that I'd broken no bones and I wasn't going to die, I got up, downed three ibuprofen and finished the job, back throbbing.

That all done, I got on the bike and started over to Allison's. I felt good for most of the ride – my legs felt strong, I had a good amount of energy. With a heavy pack on my back, I struggled a bit with climbing, of which my route had some of. Up until the last climb, I was doing well, but at Mt. Carmel road, my legs cramped up horribly and I struggled hard up the hill. I'd only had two Hammer gels and some water for the duration of the ride, so I was low on energy, but I haven't felt that weak in a long while. 46 miles isn't much, but considering my circumstances (two days of long running for an occasional runner, lots of bad dietary choices, and a 25 pound backpack), I can say that I came into the ride handicapped.

Today was off; I didn't even bother with trying to get on the bike before leaving Cincinnati. I went for a long walk with Allison this morning, then walked again upon arriving in Chicago to get some groceries. Tomorrow I'm commuting in by bike, so we'll see what I make happen when I ride twice in a day.

Back to Cincinnati

The office closes at noon today, and once out the door, I'm meeting Kevin at his place of employment, getting his keys, hopping on the Blue Line to Logan Square. Then I'll pack his car up, load my stuff in, pick up Carley, go to Vienna Beef (maybe). Finally, head back downtown, pick Kevin up when he gets off of work, switch spots in the car and finally head back down to Cincinnati.

I'm bringing lots of thesis work with me. The light's at the end of the tunnel, as some might say. About time, because I've only waited until I have a full-time job to work on my research. I get home most days at about six P.M., hop immediately on the trainer because the weather's been too lousy the past week to commute in, and then after an hour or so of that, it's a short shower, dinner, and then work. At least I'm disciplined.

I've also got my pedals, shoes, helmet and other cycling accoutrements in the bag. I'm planning on running Thursday and Friday and then spending Saturday and Sunday doing long, slower, "tempo" rides. Y'know, to burn off all the pecan pie I'll inevitably gorge on.

A Love Letter

Adam Myerson Hodges says it so well. This almost made me shed a tear and listen to Avail.

I never saw someone put a full tank of gas in their car until I was a bike racer. I didn’t know people ever had that much money at once growing up; my mom never put more than $10 in at a time. My teammate in the ‘90’s, Kevin Monahan, had never seen anyone only withdraw $10 from an ATM machine until he saw me do it. You can’t even get tens from an ATM anymore, but when you had less than $20 in your account and you could get $1 burritos at Taco Bell, that’s how it was. And I lived like this for all of the ‘90’s, the same way punk bands toured in all of the ‘80’s, because I fucking love bike racing. This team is my band. This sport is my scene. I’m ready to come out with my guitar blazing and annihilate my audience that way Black Flag did in the ‘80’s, and in a way you guys who were just born in that decade might not fully understand. Search and Destroy.

and

We can make up what we lack in resources and experience with enthusiasm and commitment. If we do this right, we can’t be contained.

And this is why I love Half Acre Cycling. Hell yeah.

A Job

This morning I woke up at about 5:50 AM, as I usually do, spent some time coughing up some nastiness as I've come down with a cold, made coffee, showered, and set about taking care of the other mundane tasks of morning.

Oh, and I got dressed in some finery, because I finally have a job in my area of study and interest. And the workplace is in the Loop. And I have benefits, including health insurance (which I've paid for out-of-pocket for months now). I'm working at a small not-for-profit developing media communications and content for a new website. Just enough programming/webwork that I can handle, and plenty of writing, analysis and research to keep me happy and comfortable. I'm excited and finally feel a sense of relief. I've spent the past year working temp jobs, living off of savings, and as of late, loan money. I'm already in debt a fair amount because of school - and I'm glad that I won't have to go further in debt because of a butter-soft job market for journalism/media specialists.

I spent most of the day reading over policy papers, taking care of administrative tasks, setting up my officespace, and going to Maggiano's for the annual holiday luncheon. Yes, I was rewarded with 2.75 hours of work with a family-style Italian meal and a couple glasses of wine.

Tomorrow, I have the feeling that wine will not be the beverage of choice with lunch. A shame, because I am quite a fan of a drink with my mid-day meal: the Europeans do it, why not us? A long time ago, I worked for a lawyer in a small office. Often, all us in the office would go to lunch – a three hour lunch – and would come back adequately toasted, so much that the rest of the day's work was worthless. Those days were rare, but they were still fun, nonetheless.

...

Time for some oversharing, despite the pitfalls:

I have a lot of friends out there, lots of people who care. My apologies that I've been distant, unavailable, flaky for way too long. I reward dedication and love with a cold shoulder. Nothing against you – it's me. I forced the life of a semi-hermit upon myself and now I need to make amends. Think of things as a myopic scope – my field of vision has narrowed down to a small point and the focus of that point being finding a job and trying to move on to the next stage of my life, whatever that is.

Someone should've told me that I can bring other people along, too. I go back to Cincinnati and I end up sitting at home writing and hanging out with my family, but unable to make it out to see people I grew up with. It's pretty pathetic. Now that things are hitting on a much more positive note for me, and I'm finally finding traction, it's time for me to reach out and repair bonds.

So to all, expect more me in your lives, whether you want it or not.

Montrose: the day after

In response to Naz's post on yesterday's race:

You summed it all up perfectly. We’ve talked a lot this fall and maybe we got into each other’s heads a little bit. Talk like “We’re just doing this to have some fun.” Or “We’ll just race our own races and see how we do.”

That talk is self-defeating. And it showed. We did well this fall, but we know we could’ve done better. Maybe not podium, but at least in contention, and not in the purgatory no-man’s-land of the 20s.

There’s always talk of next year and next year is when we’re going to have to make amends. It’s too late now, but at least we can go out saying, “We made it to most of the races and had a ball nearly every time.”

If we weren’t at least partially dedicated, we would be riding up and down the LFP, cruising in the small ring, with lots of stops and breaks. We do this bicycle racing thing for so many different reasons, but the chief of them all is that we like to go fast. But if there’s one thing that’s better than going fast is finding a way of going faster.

Montrose Harbor

The last race of the ChiCrossCup series; the last race of the year. Capping off a ho-hum race year, albeit one memorable for so many reasons besides places. Forced to miss a few races due to budgetary reasons, I was forced to re-evaluate things and I realized that I was better off racing for fun and without the pressure to win. Not saying I didn't want to win, because I did and always will, but I took my battles to the more realistic level: beat my teammates, pick off certain friends on other teams.

That much I did and I was happier for it. Lansing and today's race at Montrose Harbor were raced with a clearer head and no case of the nervous jitters - I was out to have fun and fight a smaller fight. Next year will be different, because I aim to come into the season with stronger legs and lungs, but for right now, this is all I can do.

I picked up Naz and Jen this morning and got a dozen donuts to hand-up. Got to the course, only about a mile away and quickly suited-up in the 10 degree weather (yes, it was that cold this morning) and got a chance to pre-ride the course. Any other day and the course would've been a fast screamer, but with a couple inches of snow and ice on the ground caution was the watchword. I found myself taking some corners rather wide and if I tried to bring the corner in closer, I would stumble and come close to crashing.

Spent the minutes left before the race in the car staying warm with the heater on full blast. 10 minutes to go, out warming back up and then it was to the line. A small speech from the organizer and then the whistle shriek brought me back to reality. All my talk of racing for fun went out the window and I was immediately back looking for some blood. Took a bit of time to get there, as a crash split the field and then my left shoe's velcro straps let me foot out just when I needed it to least. A small stop and I was back in.

Eight laps, most of which was spent by myself with about five visible riders in chase. Kevin Clark was up ahead and was not to be seen again until post-race. The rest of the team was behind, but visible, so they kept the pressure on. At the small sandramp, I took the angle wrong and nearly made myself infertile. Two laps left, my hands were numb, same with my feet and I was just trying not to crash. Never took a spill and I finished the race at 25(I think?)

Right after, got back into the car to warm up and then screamed my lungs out for friends and teammates, both old and new, in the following races.

Can't wait for 2009.

Seriously?

I just bought www.ZachThomas.org. In the next few weeks, expect to find this blog there, along with lots of other exciting things.

And yes, most pictures of me feature me eating. What can I say? I'm a hungry dude.

Bad Brakes

If you've ridden with me at all in the past four months, you by now know that my Voodoo has the most gawdawful brake squeal in the Chicago city limits, besides that from buses and cabs. A well-maintained bicycle is a near-silent mechanical wonder, with only the slight tick of the chain turning over and the solid clunk of a gearshift being the most common sounds. Grinding, cracking or squealing sounds are found on ill-maintained bikes, a category of which my bike sometimes falls. Until a few weeks ago, until it mysteriously went away on its own, a loud clicking sound came from somewhere in the headset every time I pedaled. It annoyed me, the rider, so I'm sure it annoyed all of my riding partners.

Sorry about that.

But I'm really sorry about my brakes. Because Chicago is so flat, the only time I really put any modulation into the brakes is on the descent from the pedestrian bridge crossing the Chicago river, when a jogger decides to run in front of me, or any time that a motorist comes too close with their car. Oh, and when I see a squirrel.

Any time that I use my front brake, my bike screams. I've played with the toe-in of the pads, but the Avid Shorty 4 brakes on my machine are notorious for chatter/squeal and I'm going to blame them rather than my sham bicycle maintenance abilities. The sound is piercing from where I am and likely louder for everyone else.

Lately, I've been using it as a horn, especially on the LFP. There, joggers, mothers with strollers, and squirrels like to dart in front of the fast-moving cyclist and when a fast-moving cyclist hits a jogger, mother with stroller, or squirrel, someone will end up hurt. Or in the case of squirrels, dead. Yes, I've accidentally hit and killed squirrels with my bike. Two, in fact.

Whenever I see one of these obstacles come close to putting themselves and me into peril, I slam on that brake and watch as they dart away. I'm not saying I delight in seeing a runner start at the sound of my bike as I come bearing down upon him or her, but, well, I kinda do. If people remembered the advice their mothers dispensed to them as a child, that being to always look both ways before crossing or entering into the street, then I wouldn't have to slam on my brakes to avoid them. The squirrels don't know any better, of course.

So, again, apologies to all my friends and fellow cyclists who have to put up with my noise. It's for our collective good, or that's how I'm going to rationalize my disinterest in finding a solution to the problem.

Montrose this Weekend

Yeah, I'm excited. I told the other place I write for all about it, may as well say something here.

On another note, I may not be so broke in the near future. Huh?